“Well, I try to stay in shape.” The younger priest seemed pleased with Melissa's attention.
“We were talking about last night's tragedy on the reservation,” Dorothy said to her daughter.
“Does anybody know what really happened?” Melissa asked.
“Everybody knows Harvey Castle's nephew killed him. Except Father John here.” Looking steadily at Father John, Ned asked, “Who do you think did it?”
Father John shook his head. “If I knew, the murderer wouldn't be walking around free.”
Ned wheeled about and faced his niece. “Where's that young man of yours? Lots of pretty women here could be fixin' to run off with him.”
Melissa exhaled a long breath. “If you mean Arthur, he's over there,” she said, tossing her head toward the house. “He's not my young man.”
“Well, he oughtta be.” Looking back at Father John, Ned said, “Arthur Schwartz's family runs the biggest herd of Hereford in Wyoming on a ranch outside Thermopolis. With the Cooley ranch going to the Arapahos, it's only natural this little filly here should have another place to run on.”
“Ned, you're incorrigible.” Dorothy laughed. “Let's not be in a hurry to marry off Melissa.”
“The way this conversation's going, I think I'll move along,” Melissa said. The smile she flashed Father John as she walked away was warm and friendly, yet there was something uneasy about it, something sad. It surprised him.
“Have you heard the rest of our news?” Dorothy asked. “The polls say Ned is going to be the next governor. The other two candidates aren't even close. And the governor himself is coming tonight to endorse Ned. Isn't that exciting?” She beamed as she looked from her brother to the priests, and Father John noticed his assistant beaming back.
“About time a Cooley got to Cheyenne,” Ned said. “Hell, we've been running Fremont County long enough. I spent twenty years as county commissioner here. Dad had the job for thirty.” He took a step backward, folding his arms across his chest. “All the party bigwigs in the region support me. I was down in Denver this weekend meeting with some mighty important people. Gettin' my ducks in a row, you might say. Caught the flight back this afternoon just in time for the party here.”
“It's hard to believe you're letting the ranch go,” said Father John. “The Cooleys have been here even longer than the Jesuits.”
“Hundred and fourteen years, to be exact. But running for governor is taking all my time. Hell, I've only gotten in a couple fishing trips so far this summer. Gonna take all my money, too, more'n likely.” Ned threw his head back and laughed. “So I decided it's time to sell out. Those Indians are getting a hell of a deal. A hundred thousand acres and three oil wells for five million. And no tellin' how many oil wells might be sunk in the future. All you gotta do is poke a stick in the ground to get a gusher. Trouble is, oil business is kaput in this country for the time being. Indians can wait. I don't have the time. I mean to get on with my political career.”
“Ned's also throwing the Cooley collection into the deal.” Dorothy turned to Father Brad. “It's the best collection of Indian artifacts in the area.”
The young priest looked more interested. “Where is it?”
“Turned the first floor into a museum just to show it off.” Ned's head and shoulders pivoted toward the ranch house, and the cowboy band strumming a slow ballad seemed to grab his attention. “What the hell you boys playing now?” he shouted. “Play something cheerful. This ain't a wake.” There was a burst of laughter from people milling about the lawn.
“Come on,” Ned said, looking pleased with himself. “I'm gonna introduce Bart here to some important people. John Frisco's over there, mayor of Lander. And that's Riverton's finest, Mayor Paul Coulson, next to him. Jasper Owens is around someplace.”
“I think I already know most of those people,” Father John said as Ned began steering Father Brad toward the center of the lawn.
One of the waiters happened by, and Father John helped himself to a Coke from the tray the young man carried. Sipping the Coke, glad to quench his thirst, he made his way through the crowd to the long buffet table on the west side of the house.
Darkness had begun to settle in, turning the sky a deep lavender. The yellow light of candlelarias flickered on the white-clothed tables, while circles of orange lights from the cherry lanterns streamed across the lawn. Guests moved in and out of the light and shadows.
“Hi, Father,” another waiter said as Father John approached the buffet table. “You don't know me. I'm Tyler Grant.” The young man had been arranging fruit on a platter. The table was laden with food. At the far end, the roasted pig sprawled on a large silver platter, a red candied apple in its mouth. Other platters and bowls were piled high with corn on the cob, potato salad, steaming pots of baked beans, bowls of grapes, strawberries and sliced cantaloupe, and baskets of rolls.
“Is everything gonna be okay for Anthony?” the young man asked.
“I hope so,” Father John said.
“Anthony's in deep shit, ain't he?” Tyler's blue eyes flashed with anger. He slapped his hand onto the table, and the platter of fruit jumped on the white cloth. “I go to the university with Anthony. He's a real good guy. There's no way he could've murdered his uncle with that knife. It got stolen about a month ago. And besides Anthony's no murderer.”
The moccasin telegraph had been busy. It had even carried the latest news to this young white man. It always amazed Father John how quickly news traveled across the reservation, especially since only half the homes had telephones.
He decided to see what else Tyler might know. “Did you hear about the argument Anthony got into with his uncle at the powwow grounds? Strange, don't you think? I've never seen Arapaho families argue in public. Wonder why they didn't talk about the Cooley ranch deal at home?” He hoped he'd given the young man an opening.
“Cooley ranch deal?” A look of surprise stole across Tyler's face, even though he was making an obvious effort to keep himself unreadable. This young white man was definitely on Anthony's side.
“You know Ned Cooley's put this ranch up for sale,” Father John said, gesturing toward the space around them. “That's what I heard the argument was about.” Father John sensed that Tyler had heard otherwise, and he waited again for him to pick up the lead.
Instead Tyler said, “Anthony told you that?”
Father John shrugged. It didn't matter where the information came from.
“That must've been it, then,” the young man said.
At that moment one of the musicians clanged a cowbell on the porch steps. Small groups began moving in the direction of the buffet table, then the entire crowd started rolling toward it, like tumbleweeds across the plains. “Nice to talk to ya, Father,” Tyler called as he started toward the house, a sense of relief about him.
“John, jump in here.” Father Brad was at the far end of the table waving a large paper plate. Other guests motioned Father John forward. Picking up a plate from a side table, he joined his assistant.
“Never expected to see a party like this out here in the middle of Wyoming:” Father Brad grinned as he speared chunks of pork onto his plate. Father John followed his assistant down the table, absentmindedly helping himself to a small slice of meat, some potato salad, an ear of corn, and a bunch of red grapes. He was thinking about what Tyler hadn't said. The young man didn't believe Anthony and Harvey had argued over the ranch, and neither did he.
Father John slipped a brownie onto the edge of his plate between the slice of pork and the potato salad. He never got used to the way Westerners piled food together, but the brownie looked too good to pass up.
His mind was wandering down the relentless path of logic, and gradually the conclusion came into view. Last night had been a shouting match between Anthony and Harvey. Loud and emotional. Over what? Land? Father John had never completely bought that. What then? A girl? The same girl Anthony had spent the night with? The girl he didn't want involved? It was beginning to make sense. Anthony's cock-and-bull story about arguing with Harvey over land and his refusal to name his alibi were related.
But that raised other questions. Why had they argued over the girl? Was it because Harvey hadn't approved of her? Who was she? Why didn't she come forward and confirm Anthony's alibi? Still lost in his thoughts, Father John almost ran into the host.
“Got a place for you jebbies over here where the beer's nice and cold,” Ned said, leading the way to a round table directly below the front porch. The musicians were strumming another Willie Nelson tune, and guitars wailed in the warm evening air. Open bottles of beer surrounded the candlelaria on the table. Father Brad was already seated between Dorothy and Melissa. Mayor Frisco, a beefy, red-faced man, made a show of seating his daughter and his wife before claiming the chair between them.
“Father O'Malley from the reservation, right?” Jasper Owens sat down next to Father John and stuck out his hand. He was barrel-chested with a fringe of black hair that wrapped horseshoe-like around a bald head. The candlelaria cast yellow stripes of light across his face. His smile revealed a mouthful of teeth as white and straight as tombstones. A young man, dark-haired and muscular, took the chair next to Melissa, and Jasper introduced him as his assistant, Luke. Luke gave a little half nod around the table.
Father John's path seldom crossed that of Jasper Owens. He knew the oilman mostly by reputation. Jasper Owens's oil company was headquartered in Pennsylvania, a family firm, and he'd been sent west to look out for the family's interests. A couple of years ago, he'd made a bid for Wyoming's sole seat in the U.S. Congress where, had he been successful, Father John was sure, Jasper Owens would have continued looking out for his family's interests. He was not someone Father John would have picked for a dinner companion, but neither was Ned Cooley, and here he was stuck between them. He tried to shrug off the growing wish to be back in his study at the mission. This was still an opportunity to get some insight into why Harvey had decided against buying the Cooley ranch and why, all of a sudden, some oil wells on the reservation had gone dry.
The conversation focused on Harvey's murder. Who found the body? What happened then? When was Anthony arrested? Father John ate silently while his assistant filled in the details. He even launched his hit-man theory, and Father John waited to see how he would handle the part about Harvey being killed over oil, with the oilman at the table. Father Brad finessed it brilliantly, calling the motive for the contract “Harvey's political decisions.”
Jasper finally turned the conversation to the Cooley ranch. “This good man here's about to give this place away,” the oilman said, pointing a fork at Ned. “Those Indians are gettin' the chance of a lifetime. I hope they're grateful.”
As if the conversation had nothing to do with him, Ned tipped his chair back and motioned to one of the waiters. “Get me another chunk of pork,” he ordered. “This here's tough as cowhide.”
“I would think your company would want a ranch with oil wells on it,” Father John said.
“We're in the oil business, not real estate,” Jasper said, shoveling a fork full of potato salad into his mouth. He swallowed and went on. “What would we want with this enormous ranch? We're interested in pumping oil, that's it.”
“I've heard there's more profit in owning wells than in leasing them. No royalties to pay out,” Father John persisted. He remembered Anthony's concern that an oil company would buy the ranch and put an end to any possibility of Arapahos ever getting it.
Jasper laid his fork down and turned toward Father John. “More profit, more trouble,” he said. “Best deal is to own the mineral rights. Of course, that's sometimes hard to get, especially around here. Oil companies can only lease wells on the reservation. Those Indians aren't selling any rights. And Ned here's makin' a package deal. Ranch and mineral rights together. Hell of a deal for those Indians, I say.”
“Some wells on the reservation have been closed down, I hear,” Father John went on, pushing the opportunity to find out as much as he could while the conversation was on oil wells.
The oilman was quiet a moment, as if arranging the words in his head before speaking. “Some wells just stop paying out. It happens. That's the oil game.”
Jasper strung out the word “game” like a string of tobacco juice, and Father John felt a wave of disgust come over him. He fought the urge to push away from the table and head for the Toyota. This game determined whether some Arapaho families would have food this winter, or natural gas for heat, or coats for their kids. It wasn't a game to them.
Just then a light-gray sedan pulled into the driveway, followed by two state patrol cars and a truck with Channel 5 emblazoned on the side panels.
âThe governor,” Ned said, jumping out of his chair. He strode across the lawn toward the sedan.
The murmuring and laughter of the crowd died down as Ned ushered the governor past the tables and onto the porch. Two television cameramen stationed themselves below, right next to Father John, their cameras trained on the governor. Short and wiry in a dark, western-cut suit, he pumped Ned's hand up and down, grinning toward the cameras. The music ended in a loud crescendo.
Ned pulled the microphone over from the band. “Ladies and gents. We have with us here no other than the honorable governor of Wyoming. Let's give him a big welcome.” The crowd stood up, clapping as Ned telescoped the microphone and pushed it toward the governor. Everyone sat down.