Eye of the Wolf by Margaret Coel Page B

charged with protecting the white settlers. Shoshone scouts spotted the Arapaho village in a canyon in the badlands and informed the captain. Indeed, the Shoshones guided the captain and his troops to the village and joined in the attack, prompted on their part, I believe, by a pervasive fear. That fear, Father, became the motivation. There’s no question but that the Shoshones feared the Arapahos were about to invade their land, which is ultimately what occurred. By the time of the battle, Shoshone lands had been greatly diminished. It was only natural that they should take steps to prevent any incursion onto the reservation.”
    â€œAn attack at dawn on a sleeping village, Professor?” Father John didn’t try to soften the irritation in his voice. “It was inexcusable.”
    â€œYes, yes.” The white head nodded, the knobby hands fluttered over the desktop. “One might make the argument that the long war for ownership of the Great Plains was inexcusable, but nevertheless, it was waged among the tribes themselves, and ultimately, with the United States Army. A war, of course, which the tribes were bound to lose. As scholars, we must do our best to lift the veil of confusion and reveal the motivations behind the actions. Sometime, Father, we must have a discussion on the purpose of historical research: to condemn or to illuminate?”
    Professor Lambert took a moment to reposition himself in the chair. A trace of amusement moved through his expression at some new idea. “When a colleague at the college implored me to teach a class on the tribal battles, I acquiesced,” he said. “Quite an exceptional gathering of students for a small college. Twelve of my thirteen students are Native American. Here on the plains, it is the descendants of the conquered who are most interested in the battles waged for the land. I suggested to the students that they visit the Bates Battlefield. When I read in this morning’s paper that the dead men are most likely native, naturally I grew concerned . . .”
    He let the rest drift between them a moment before he continued. “It has occupied my thoughts all morning, Father. It occurred to me that you may know the identities of the dead men.”
    Father John shook his head. He reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out the folded sheet of paper with the telephone message written on it, and slid it across the desk. “The killer called the priest at St. Aiden’s, Father Owens, and left this message. The voice was distorted, like the voice of a robot. It’s impossible to know whether it was a man or a woman.”
    The professor picked up the paper and held it in the circle of light. A shadow flitted across his face. “How did you come upon this?” he asked.
    Father John explained that when the other priest couldn’t make sense out of the message, he’d taken a chance and called him.
    Pushing the paper back, Lambert said, “I find the phrasing oddly familiar. Perhaps the creative endeavor of one of my students, although I hope that is not the case.”
    Father John waited while the man seemed to turn his attention to the Russell poster again. After a moment, Lambert said, “A young woman, the only nonnative student in the class, by the name of Edith Bradbury. I would say she fancies herself a poet, although I suspect her attempts at poetry may be crude. However, she does have a flare for brief, pithy images.”
    Father John refolded the paper and pushed it back into his shirt pocket. “Are you saying she could have written the message?” It was hard to believe. The girl had been so distraught—so lost—at Trent’s disappearance.
    â€œNo. No. Absolutely not.” Lambert was waving both hands over the desk. “I would not be qualified to judge her poetic endeavors, which, in any case, I have not seen. Naturally I do not require my students to write poetry. I can only