The Man Who Fell from the Sky (11 page)

FROM BLUE SKY
Highway, Father John could see the trucks and vehicles, the crowd gathering along the riverbank like a cloud of mosquitoes, the white tipis and the crossed poles framed against the sky. He made a right onto a dirt road and parked behind the food van. One side had been pulled up and braced on metal rods. Inside a man in a white jacket was turning hamburgers on a grill while a plume of gray smoke sputtered out of a vent on the roof. Smells of charred meat and coffee hung in the air. Walks-On jumped down from the pickup and lifted his head toward the aromas.

Before he and the dog had walked very far down the road, a man in a pink shirt and blue jeans, clipboard in one hand, stepped in front of him. “You got a pass?”

Father John put up both hands, palms out.
I come in peace.
“Father O'Malley from the mission,” he said. “Todd Paxton asked me to stop by.”

“Todd looking for a three-legged dog?”

“The dog's with me.”

The man in the pink shirt slipped a phone out of a case on his belt. He pushed a button, stared at the phone, then said: “Todd? Got a priest here with a dog, says you told him to stop by.”

“Send him over.” The director's voice echoed around itself, as if he were speaking inside a barrel.

“We're pretty busy today. Got a lot of shooting ahead. Keep that dog under control and make it short.” The man in the pink shirt said all this while motioning Father John forward with the phone. A small plane passed overhead, leaving a rumbling noise in its wake.

He found the director in the center of a crowd, heads bent in his direction. After a minute or two, the people around him backed away and hurried off in different directions. All around were the clanking and scuffing noises of busyness. Todd dropped into a canvas chair, an air of exhaustion about him. Father John could feel the man's eyes on him as he walked over.

“Get a chair.” The director waved to a man standing nearby, then turned back to Father John. “Glad you could stop by,” he said as Father John perched on the canvas chair that had appeared behind him. Walks-On settled on the bare dirt, turning his head side to side at the kaleidoscope of sights and motion. “We're shooting Lone Bear's camp today,” Todd said. “The old maps say this is the exact place on the Wind River where it was located.”

Father John took a minute. After ten years with the Arapahos, the white ways of putting business first jolted him a little. Finally he said, “Eldon Lone Bear's grandfather was a friend of Butch Cassidy. Eldon's grandson told me the old man would be glad to talk to you.”

The director slapped a hand against his thigh. “Great news! Let's hope his grandfather passed along stories about his buddy Butch.” He leaned over and held his hand above Walks-On's head. “This guy friendly?”

“Pretty much likes everybody.”

He patted the dog's head. “More than I can say for the Indians around here.”

“I've also spoken with Maris Reynolds,” Father John said. He had called the woman yesterday and asked if she might be willing to talk to the film crew about Butch's ranch near Dubois, next to her grandfather's place. She had sounded excited that somebody cared about her stories. She told him she had gone to the shooting site, but some guy with a clipboard had blocked her way, which she found insulting. Nobody in these parts blocked the way of a Reynolds, she announced. Her family had been here before . . .

He had interrupted. “Would it be okay to give the director your number?”

“Yes, of course,” she had told him. He could feel the subject of the opera tickets clinging to the line like a live creature, and just as he expected, Maris asked if he had made plans to use the tickets. When he said he was still thinking about it, she told him to stop lollygagging. “A very good word,” she said. “No reason for it to go out of use. I expect you to do your part to bring it back.”

He had promised to try, then hung up and looked at the opera tickets held down by a paperweight. A tempting thought, the opera, but it would mean leaving the bishop alone for three days. He had pushed the thought away.

Now he told Todd Paxton that Maris Reynolds's grandfather and Butch Cassidy had been good friends. “They ran adjoining spreads,” he said, tearing off the top page from the tablet he
carried in his shirt pocket. He had written down Eldon's telephone number as well as Maris's. He handed over the paper.

Todd stared at him with surprise-widened eyes. “This is good stuff,” he said. “I regret not coming to the mission sooner.”

“When people hear that Eldon and the descendant of one of the old families are talking to you, others might step up.” It was possible, Father John was thinking. Arapahos had always been friendly with outsiders. In the Old Time: the friendliest tribe on the plains, the tribe that collected the stragglers lost from the wagon trains, took them to their village, fed them, and led them back to the trains. It wasn't like Arapahos to turn away from strangers.

Todd Paxton slipped the paper into his shirt pocket, patted Walks-On's head again, then leapt out of the chair so fast the dog gave a little twitch. “Come on. I'll show you around the camp while they're rearranging props.”

Father John followed the man past an array of cameras on tripods, people hustling about, arms loaded with eagle-feathered headdresses, painted shields, quivers of arrows and armfuls of bows, tanned, fringed shirts, a black metal pot banging on a tripod.

And then they were in the village. A collection of white tipis that from a distance resembled tanned skins, but close-up he could see were canvas. Painted on the walls were red, white, yellow, and black figures of horses, buffalo, and warriors charging an unseen enemy, headdresses flying behind. All meant to depict the events in Lone Bear's life. Somebody in the crew had done the research. The tipis encircled a campfire, logs latticed on one another, as if the fire might alight at any moment. Except, on closer inspection, he saw the logs were made of Styrofoam.

Between the campfire and the Wind River stood a brush shade that looked genuine, with stripped lodgepole pines and young
cottonwood trees forming the walls and the roof. There was a wide opening in the wall facing east. Sunlight shone through the branches and cast leaf shadows over the dirt floor inside, a sight that Walks-On seemed to find fascinating, since he kept nosing at the shadows.

Inside the brush shade the temperature was twenty degrees cooler, an engineering marvel that had made it possible for Arapahos and other tribes to survive the burning summers on the plains. The cottonwoods muffled the shouts and the pounding footsteps outside, as if the activity were far away, leaving the clear sounds of the river brushing the rocks and lapping at the shores.

Father John felt as if he had stepped into the past, as if Lone Bear himself might appear, invite him to a feast, and Butch Cassidy might stroll in. Grinning, slapping everyone on the back.

“What do you think?” Todd Paxton stood in the opening, a blurred shadow backlit by the light outside.

“I'm looking around for Lone Bear himself.”

The director laughed. “It's going to be even better when we add the old stories. Everything will come to life. That's what I love about documentaries, the you-are-there feeling.” He stepped backward, and Father John joined him outside. The director threw out his arms and framed an imaginary scene with his hands. “I can see Eldon in the brush shade, reminiscing about his grandfather. Or maybe seated around the campfire out here.” He pivoted toward the fire pit. “Yes, that might work best. Telling stories around the fire that plays across his face. We'll have to adjust the lights.”

Father John had to move sideways past two men hauling a narrow cot into the tipi, covered with a buffalo robe that dragged on the ground. Other crew members jostled past, carrying more buffalo robes. “Almost ready, Todd,” one called.

A dozen women were milling about, dressed in skin dresses, with black hair that hung in braids beneath the beaded bands around their foreheads. Other actors started walking over: warriors, naked to the waist, blue and red slashes painted on their brown chests and faces. They gathered near the tipis, around the campfire, inside the brush shade. Everyone moving into a preassigned place. Warriors sat down cross-legged on the ground and began carving arrow points. Women bent over the pots and pushed large bone spoons around whatever was inside.

A sharp clack sounded, then quiet fell over the camp. Todd had moved behind the cameras, and he and the crew members stood very still. The only people in motion, the actors and the cameramen who turned the big lenses toward a clump of trees farther down the river. Out of the trees rode a big man in a cowboy hat and what looked like tan corduroy pants and jacket. A rifle lay in a scabbard next to his right leg. He rode close to the camp and dismounted with the ease of a man who had spent years on a horse. The cameras locked on him as he looped the reins around a willow branch. A small boy ran out from a tipi, shouting, “
Hou! Hou!
” The cameras turned on him now. The boy shouted something else in Arapaho and the camp sprang into life. Everyone hurried over to the white man, warriors with arms outstretched, women bowing, tapping the ground, making the ululating sounds of joy.

An elderly man stepped out of a tipi. Dressed in a white shirt decorated with beads, quills, and fringe, leather trousers with fringe down the sides, white moccasins. He waited, arms at his sides, until the crowd of Indians parted and the white man came toward him. Then he went to meet him and gripped the white man's hand. “Good to see you, my friend.”

They turned back and dropped cross-legged at the campfire,
bending heads together, conversing in low voices, and Father John understood this would be where a voice-over explained how the man who called himself George Cassidy used to visit the camp of his Arapaho friend, Lone Bear.

“Cut!” Todd yelled. He went over to a man with a clipboard and conferred for a moment, then stopped at the campfire and spoke to the actor playing Cassidy. Then he was back beside Father John. “We're going to do another take. Cassidy's too stiff. Butch was at home with Lone Bear; he liked the Arapahos, got along fine with them. I want to see more warmth and excitement, old friends getting together after some time.”

“I'm looking forward to the film,” Father John said. “Thanks for the preview.” He checked around for Walks-On, but the dog was already bounding toward the pickup, as if he had figured out it was time to go.

“One more thing.” The director's fingers dug into his arm, and he turned back. “We did a shoot in the mountains on the possibility that Butch buried his loot hereabouts. I picked up a treasure map at the bookstore in Lander. Figure the maps must mean locals believe the loot is still there.”

“It's a good story.” One of those Western yarns, Father John was thinking, that grew in the telling and retelling. “I don't know whether there's any truth in it.”

The director gave a quick look around and, still gripping Father John's arm, led him farther from the camp. “One of the warriors”—he nodded back at the actors—“overheard some gossip at a bar in town last night. Is it true an Arapaho was drowned in the mountains last week looking for the loot?”

“The man liked getting away,” Father John said. “The idea of buried treasure was a good excuse.”

“Something else.” The director stayed with him along the dirt path. “The actor heard that the man—what was his name? Robert . . .”

“Walking Bear.”

“Yeah, Walking Bear. Rumor is he might've been murdered. Found the loot and somebody took it from him.”

Father John was quiet a moment. This was news he hadn't anticipated. “The rez is full of rumors,” he said. “Most likely, Robert's death was an accident.”

Todd stopped walking and turned toward him. Excited, the color flaring in his cheeks, light bristling in his eyes. “We could have a mystery here. Nothing better to promote the documentary than a modern-day murder linked to Butch Cassidy. See what I mean? Not just a tour through the past with a fascinating character, but repercussions today. Look”—he tightened his hand on Father John's arm—“anybody around here with family stories about Butch Cassidy burying his loot? Now that would be a find. That would make the film. I hear Robert was married. Do you think his wife might . . .”

“The woman is grieving, Todd.”

“Sure, sure. Naturally.” He shook his head and looked off into space. “Still, if her husband was murdered, she'd want to know who did it.”

Father John freed himself from the director's grasp and left him standing in the middle of the road, thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets. He walked past the man in the pink shirt with the clipboard to the pickup where Walks-On waited at the passenger door, wagging his tail.

Murder! Over stolen treasure that may or may not have been buried in the mountains. Treasure that no one had found in more
than a hundred years. It seemed preposterous that Robert Walking Bear had actually stumbled on Butch Cassidy's treasure. Shrugging off the idea, Father John let Walks-On into the pickup, then slid in behind the steering wheel. Anything to promote the film. He regretted giving Todd Paxton the telephone numbers.

STILLNESS GRIPPED THE
white frame house and the dirt yard with the gray sedan angled close to the front stoop. Vicky parked behind the sedan, rolled down the windows, and turned off the engine. Ruth would have heard the Ford, the tires skidding to a stop. The door remained closed. Tight red buds on the geraniums next to the stoop looked withered in the dry heat.

Several minutes passed before Vicky got out and slammed the door hard, in case Ruth hadn't heard the Ford after all. She walked up to the front door and knocked, aware of her muscles crimped with tension. Something wasn't right. The sedan was here, which meant Ruth was probably home. A woman in shock, grieving, alone. Maybe she didn't want company, but that didn't make sense. Vicky had called before she left the office and Ruth had wanted to know when she could come over. “I'll get away this afternoon,” Vicky had told her.

She knocked again.

“Cutter?” The voice came from the side of the house. Then Ruth appeared around the corner, dark red hair piled on top of her head, a yellow blouse with long, wide sleeves flowing in the breeze. “Oh, Vicky! I thought you were Cutter.” She stopped next to the geraniums and tried to smile past the look of confusion on her face. “Sorry, I didn't hear you drive up. It's cooler out back.”

Vicky followed the woman around the corner, along the side of the house, Ruth racing ahead as if she were trying to outrun the disappointment. A tarpaulin had been set up over two lawn chairs, creating a block of shade. On the small metal table between the chairs stood a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. “Cutter promised to stop by this afternoon. You know how it is—always something to fix around the house. Now the kitchen sink is leaking. He's been such a good friend. Can I pour you some tea?”

Vicky nodded and took one of the chairs while Ruth filled the glasses. She handed one to Vicky. “He was just getting to know Robert,” she said, and Vicky realized Ruth was still talking about Cutter. “Family was important to both of them. Robert wanted to make sure the relatives all accepted Cutter.”

“And did they?”

“Oh yes. I mean they're surprised Cutter came back. But most of the cousins welcomed him back.” Ruth dropped into the other chair, took a sip of iced tea, then patted at her hair and pulled her lips into a tight red line, as if she were testing the words erupting in her throat. Her face looked puffy, at the edge of pale. Her eyes shifted from side to side, as if she weren't sure what they should focus on. Eventually she looked at Vicky. “You've heard the news, I guess.”

Vicky didn't reply. News traveled on the moccasin telegraph at
lightning speed, but it didn't always reach her. “I came to see how you're doing,” she said finally. “If there is anything I can do . . .”

“All over the telegraph.” Ruth held up her glass and rolled it back and forth, staring at the tea that sparkled and changed from brown to golden in the bright light. “Everybody sticking their noses in my business, making up gossip, spreading it all over the rez.”

Vicky took another drink of her tea. Sweeter than she would have liked, but cold and refreshing. The wind had picked up, and the tarpaulin made a loud thwack as it billowed upward. The metal poles at the corners skidded a little in the dirt, like debris caught in a lake.

“Don't worry,” Ruth said. “It won't fall down. Cutter put it up for me, said I needed a cool place in the yard.”

“You'd better tell me what's going on.”

Ruth drank most of her own tea. She had gone back to looking around, hunting for a place upon which her gaze could land. Then she shifted toward Vicky again. “The fed showed up yesterday with a lot of questions. Did Robert have any enemies? Had he been in any altercations? Anyone threaten him? How do I know he was alone in the mountains? Who might have gone with him? Could I be sure he told me everything?” She took another drink of tea, then reached over, lifted the pitcher, and refilled her glass. She held out the pitcher, but Vicky shook her head. “He'd pretty much stopped asking questions, and now he's started up again. I've been holding on the best I can.” She blinked back the tears forming in her eyes. “Now, a bunch of new questions. Well, not exactly new. The same questions but with more . . . I don't know. Meanness. And the fed has been bothering Robert's relatives and friends again, wanting to know what they might've forgotten to tell him. Went to Dallas's house. Asked so many questions Dallas was late
for work this morning. Talked to Robert's cousin Bernie and her husband, talked to Cutter and I don't know who else.”

She leaned closer. “That's not the worst. The coroner won't release Robert's body. Robert should have been buried by now; instead his spirit is wandering the rez. Oh, folks have seen him! Talked to him! Last night I heard a loud pounding noise in the yard. I got up and looked out the window. The pounding got louder. I couldn't see anything, but I knew it was Robert. He's confused and upset, doesn't know what to do, where to go. Vicky, help us. Get the coroner to release his body.”

Vicky looked away. She had caused this pain and stress. An anonymous caller, a self-proclaimed witness to murder. Of course Gianelli would double down on the investigation. And yet, part of her felt relieved. If Robert Walking Bear had been murdered, then a killer was walking around free. The truth should be known; justice done.

She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at the thought. Justice, so seldom done. Truth, rarely known. She made herself look at Ruth: “I'm afraid I may be responsible.”

“You? Responsible? Why, Vicky? What did you do?”

Vicky told her about the anonymous caller and what he had claimed. She told her about going to the lake again and finding a piece of a torn, burned map. And she told her about giving the information to Gianelli.

“Anonymous caller? He must hate me.”

“Hate you?”

“To keep me on edge like this. Nothing settled, Robert's ghost wandering around, and I can't get on with my life. I have plans, you know, things I always wanted to do that Robert didn't give this much about.” She snapped her fingers. “He did what he
wanted, chased after his dream, and I sat here, waiting. Well, now it's my time.” She settled her back against the webbing. “Anonymous caller,” she said again, almost to herself. “Some crank. It will blow over. Will you talk to the fed, explain how Robert needs to be buried?”

Vicky finished her tea and set the glass on the table. “Gianelli is in charge of the investigation. I'm sorry, Ruth, but it will have to run its course.”

“You don't believe an anonymous caller, do you?” Ruth gave a little laugh out of the side of her mouth, as if she were spitting out gum. “Please! I can't handle this nonsense.”

“Why would he have called me?”

“I just told you. He has it in for me. Maybe Robert told him something . . .”

“Like what? What could Robert have said about you?”

Ruth pinched her lips together a moment before she said, “Nothing. There was nothing to tell. So I nagged him to do things around the house, stop spending so much time in the mountains, take me to Denver, take me dancing. What difference does it make? What couple doesn't have their differences? We hung together for twenty-one years, Robert and me. Now he's gone. He's gone, and some hateful man wants to make my life miserable.”

Vicky didn't say anything. She wasn't sure how to bring up the subject, the uneasiness she hadn't been able to ignore. Cutter, sitting across from her at the restaurant last night.
Robert was sure he was going to find a lot of money. I went along a few times. Chance to get to know my cousin . . .

“I thought you told me Robert went treasure hunting alone. But Cutter told me he went with Robert several times. Is there anybody else who might have gone with him? What about Dallas?”

Ruth was shaking her head. “I don't care what anybody says. Robert always went alone. He didn't want anyone around when he found the treasure. Like he was ever going to find treasure!” She gave a sharp laugh.

“Why would Cutter say he had gone if he hadn't?”

Ruth sprang out of the chair. She stepped to the edge of the shade, the wind whipping her skirt around her legs, then turned back. “I thought you were my friend. You were on my side. You're working for the fed.”

“You know better than that, Ruth. I got to thinking that if Robert took Cutter, he might have taken someone else.”

“He never took Cutter! Why do you doubt me? When did you talk to Cutter?”

“We had dinner last night.”

“Really!” Ruth pushed back a clump of reddish hair that had blown over her forehead, then mopped at her forehead with the back of her hand. She was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling beneath the yellow blouse. After a long moment, she seemed to will herself to calm down. “I get it now,” she said. “Cutter has been trying to reconnect with people. He's trying to find his roots here. But you have to understand your anonymous caller is a liar. Robert was alone when he died. Nobody else was there. I challenge the caller to come here and lie to my face.”

Vicky took a moment before she said, “He sounded like he knew what he was talking about, Ruth. I believe he was telling the truth, and I think he's scared.”

“That's crazy.” Ruth started pacing, from one metal pole to the next, eight steps forward, eight steps back. “I'm starting to think you're crazy, too.”

“If there is any truth to what he said, you would want to know, wouldn't you?”

Ruth stopped and glared at her. “There is no truth to it.”

“You said Robert had a map handed down in the family. What about the other cousins? Did they know about the map?”

“My God. The map! You can buy a map in any town in Fremont County. Yeah, the map was in the family, all right, and Robert got it from his grandfather, who”—she laughed—“bought it in a store somewhere. They've been selling Butch Cassidy maps for a hundred years. All phonies. There's no buried treasure, except in the dreams of people like Robert.”

“But Robert's map predated the maps available today, and the piece of map I found was on rough, yellow paper. It looked old.”

“Yes. It came from a store that predated the tourist shops today. Please, Vicky.” Ruth held out both hands, palms up. “No more of this nonsense. If you want to help me, talk to Gianelli. Talk to the coroner. Tell him to release Robert's body. I have to get through this. I have to get him properly buried.”

*   *   *

HIGHWAY 287 SHIMMERED
beneath the little clouds of dust and tumbleweeds blowing off the prairie. Except for the sound of the wind and the occasional scratching noise of a tumbleweed against the Ford, it was quiet. Traffic was light; a few cars passing, a truck ahead. Vicky had rolled the windows partway down, and now she drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding her hair out of her eyes. She thought about talking to Gianelli again, but what did she have? Nothing. Except a small disagreement. Ruth insisting her husband always went treasure hunting alone, and Cutter saying he had gone with him. A problem between Robert and Ruth, probably. Let Gianelli figure out the reason behind the discrepancy.

She squinted in the bright glare coming toward her, the sun
glinting off the bumper of a truck. A loud roar as the truck passed, and then, the quiet of the plains again. It filled her with memories, as if the past were here, all around. A little girl in the back of Grandfather's pickup, driving down this very road, narrower then, the paving rough and broken. Riding her pony across the fields, the wind in her face, cousins racing alongside. Always cousins, always family. She understood why Cutter had come back. Yes, it made sense. She had come back herself.

She spotted the dark truck halfway down the block to her office. Parked at the curb, as if a client had dropped by, but it wasn't a client. Cutter was here.