Free The Man Who Fell from the Sky by Margaret Coel Page A

tossed a glance over his shoulder at the TV. “I like the oldies,” he said. “This is called
A Stolen Life
. Sit down. Take a load off.”
    â€œHow are you, Grandfather?” He grasped Eldon’s hand. The palm was weathered and roughened, like the old man’s face, the residue of years in the outdoors, working horses, herding cattle, fixing fences. Then he pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat down. The sound of Bette Davis’s voice purred between them.
    Lawrence came back into the living room with two mugs of coffee, which he sat on a side table close to Eldon. He picked up a remote and turned off the TV. The sound of Bette Davis’s voice faded like a wind blowing through. “Poured in a little milk like you like,” he said. More than ten years on the rez now, Father John was thinking. People knew his habits. Peculiarities. Like family.
    Then came five, ten minutes of pleasantries. The weather. Powwow season. Rodeos. Tourists on the rez, taking pictures, as if they had found themselves in a foreign country. Finally, a gradual move into more serious matters: The ghost leg giving him fits. Hurting all the time, and not even there anymore. From the past. He’d like to shoot it. Then he said, “Elsa tells me there was trouble at the mission over that Butch Cassidy film. Red Bull!” He made a hrrumph sound. “Hot head. From a long line of hot heads. I heard stories all my life of how the chiefs had to keep an eye on the Red Bulls or they would ride off, kill a rancher, steal the cattle, fire on troops, and lead them to the village. Get everybody killed.”
    â€œHe believes the film will bring people here looking for Butch Cassidy’s buried loot.”
    â€œNobody’s gonna find it.” Eldon smiled and shook his head. “Folks have been digging holes in the mountains for a hundred years, and nobody’s found it yet. My own relatives take it intotheir heads to go on treasure hunts every once in a while. We got a whole slew of maps. Maybe one of ’em came from my grandfather, Lone Bear, but Grandfather never said anything to me about a map.” He gave a slow, thoughtful shrug. “Lone Bear and George was good friends. Went by the name of George Cassidy then, so he wouldn’t bring shame to his family in Utah. Good Mormon people, last name Parker. His real name was Robert LeRoy Parker. I heard stories of how his mother grieved herself to death over her son taking to the outlaw trail. Always talked about going straight, my grandfather said. George took a stab at ranching for a couple of years, got to know everybody in these parts. Folks needed help building a barn, rounding up cattle, George would show up. Real neighborly like. White ranchers and Arapahos, didn’t matter none to George. All people, trying to get on, he told Lone Bear. Later, after his partner framed him for stealing a horse and he served time down in Laramie, George hit the outlaw trail again. Robbed banks. Took to robbing trains. Now that took a lot of guts.”
    Eldon was nodding, an expectant look on his face. Father John agreed. A lot of guts.
    â€œAlways got away. They never caught Cassidy. You know why? Story I heard, he was a planner. The gang would switch to the fresh horses, grab fresh supplies, and keep riding, and the posses had to give up. Cassidy had friends on the rez, so he’d ride here. Nobody called the sheriff or the tribal cops. The people protected him, because he was a local. Gave folks money to keep the banks off their land. I think he had a fine old time giving folks bank money to pay off the banks. He showed up at Lone Bear’s camp on the Wind River after a couple jobs. Spent a week or so helping with the horses and cattle. Made himself useful, like he was ranching again, going straight. Sometimes brought along one or two gangmembers. Suspicious characters, always watching the prairie. Never far from their guns. George told them to