The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel

mountains in the winter.”
    â€œHappens all the time.” Robert Crow Wolf turned back to Laura. “How can I help a fellow historian?”
    Laura felt herself beginning to relax. The man had his own projects; she was being silly to think he would want to take hers. “Would you happen to know someone named Toussaint?” she asked.
    The Indian’s eyes went to the window a moment, then he turned in his chair and faced the director. “Phyllis, see if you can get old Willie Silver on the phone.”
    â€œHe must be related to James Silver,” Laura said in a voice thin with excitement. Charlotte had interviewed James Silver.
    â€œOne and only son of,” Crow Wolf said.
    As the director started for the desk, he brought his gaze back to Laura. She felt a stab of pleasure at the acute masculine power in the man’s black eyes. “Old Willie might be able to help you out,” he said. “He’s a proud descendant of Toussaint and Sacajawea.” There was a faint tap-tap noise as the director dialed the number.
    â€œI envy you, you know,” Robert Crow Wolf went on. “Researching a mystery like Sacajawea, and I’m stuck with delivering a paper next month on how the Indians took to farming.”
    â€œWillie’s on the line.” Phyllis held up the phone, stretching the knotted cord over the desk.
    Crow Wolf got up, took the receiver, and sat on the edge of the desk. “Willie, old boy. How the hell are you?” There was a half second of silence. Crow Wolf rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Finally he said, “Got a nice lady here wants to talk to you. Teacher down in Colorado writing a book about your famous ancestor.” Another silence. “No, not Jim Bridger. Since when you related to that old trader? The lady here wants to talk to you about Toussaint. You gonna be around tomorrow? Earlier the better? Got ya, old boy.”
    Crow Wolf replaced the receiver. Leaning back onto the desk, he found a Post-it pad and a pen among the stacks of stapled pages and began writing something down. Then he tore off the top page and, handing it to Laura, said, “Here’s the directions to Willie’s ranch up on Sacajawea Ridge. I suggest you get out there before noon, while he’s still sober.” He tapped the pen against the tiny pad. “You’ve got me interested in this project of yours, Laura. I’ll see if I can convince some of the other elders that you’re an honest white woman and they oughta talk to you. Where you staying?”
    She gave him the address of the Mountain House. She had the distinct feeling that her luck was about to change.
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    Laura worked through the rest of the afternoon, reading the oral histories again, story after story told by an old woman about the scarcity of food when the expedition crossed the Rocky Mountains; the roots she had dug to help feed the soldiers; the rough waters that had tossed the boats about at the mouth of the Columbia; and the fish that had washed out of the ocean which was, she said, as long as from the door of her log cabin to the hitching rack outside. Laura studied each story, searching for some clue, some small piece of information that could have sent Charlotte Allen to the man she’d called Toussaint. At one point she realized that Robert Crow Wolf had left, and she and the director were alone. Darkness was lapping at the window.
    She returned the oral histories to the carton, then gathered up her notepad and bag and slipped into her coat. She thanked the director on the way out.
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    Highway 287 shone white in the headlights ahead as Laura drove south across the reservation. Except for the few stars twinkling overhead and the smudge of moonlight, the sky was black. After several miles, the lights of Lander flashed on the horizon. Another couple of miles and the neon lights of convenience stores and gas stations were passing outside her window. She turned into a