The Eagle Catcher by Margaret Coel Page B

the annual Cooley pig roast. He spoke a few words about the great state of Wyoming, probably the same thing he said every place he went, before he got to the point. “You folks in central Wyoming have among you the best man to lead our state in the coming years,” he said.
    The guests were on their feet again, shouting and clapping, and the governor held up both hands to quiet them. “I’m going to do everything in my power to see that Ned Cooley is elected the next governor of our great state.” The crowd whooped and hollered like cowboys at a rodeo.
    Ned reached over and pulled the stem of the microphone back up to his level. Surveying his still-standing guests, he waited for the noise to die down. “As you all know,” he began slowly “Cooleys were the first people to come to these parts more than a hundred years ago. We settled this whole county. When my great-granddaddy Mathias Cooley brought his little wife across the plains and lit on this place, there wasn’t anything here but buffalos and Indians.”
    Ned paused and waited for the laughter to die down.
    â€œEver since then, Cooleys have worked hard to make Fremont County a decent place for decent people. Now it’s time to take all that Cooley experience to the statehouse. Friends, with your help, I aim to be the next governor of Wyoming.”
    In the midst of the cheers and clapping that erupted around them, Father John caught Melissa’s eye. He’d been right earlier. There was sadness there.

10
    F ATHER JOHN OPENED the heavy, carved door and took a few steps into the front hall. His boots clumped on the hardwood floor. Father Brad followed. “I’ll be darned if it isn’t a museum,” the young priest said, whistling between his teeth. Muffled voices and a slurry of footsteps came from the rooms that opened off both sides of the long hallway. A stairway ahead led to the upper level.
    â€œMake yourselves at home.” Ned appeared in a doorway, waving the two priests into what had been the front parlor. “Everything is authentic Plains Indian stuff, I guarantee. My great-granddaddy started this collection. He was always willing to help out those Indians by givin’ ’em a few dollars for their trinkets. Family’s kept up the tradition ever since.”
    Father John took in the room at a glance. Several guests were milling about. Large Plexiglas cases filled with Indian artifacts lined the walls. Heirlooms worth who-knew-how-much gotten from poor people for a few dollars. Well, at least the Cooleys had taken care of them. And now it looked as if they would go back to the Arapahos where they belonged, if the ranch deal went through. That was about the only good thing he could think about the Cooley collection.
    Father John strolled around the room, waiting for other guests to finish examining the items in each case before he began. There were “possible bags,” all-purpose storage bags the size of a woman’s large purse, woven of horsehair and embroidered with delicate glass beads in traditional geometric patterns: stripes for the roads of life; triangles symbolizing tipis and home; circles for the camp and the people. The designs came in dreams to those who created them, and they served as ongoing prayers for the health and well-being of whoever used the bags. Ned was pointing to one of the cases. “These here are parfleches used for carrying belongings,” he told Father Brad. The rawhide bags were large and beautiful, with geometric figures painted in the soft reds, blues, and greens distilled from clay, wild berries, and leaves. Next to one of the parfleches was a saddlebag, horseshoe-shaped rawhide that fit over the rump of a horse. It too was painted in intricate patterns and decorated in horsehair tassels.
    Father John wandered through the large double doorway into the next room, with Ned and Brad following. Here several other guests bent over cases that held