Eye of the Wolf by Margaret Coel

or something . . .”
    â€œHold on, Edie.” Father John held up one hand. “Trent’s Arapaho?”
    â€œWhy do you think that?” She gave a little laugh that sounded like a strangled cry. “Trent’s real proud he’s Shoshone. He says his people and the Arapahos are traditional enemies, even though they live on the same reservation now and they gotta get along. Only reason his family hates me is ’cause I’m white. So they think Trent’s gonna go off with me and they’ll never see him again. Well, soon’s he finishes school, we’re gonna get outta here all right. We been talking about where we’ll go.” She started tearing up again, tearing up and blotting the moisture with the tissue. “Maybe go to Denver so Trent can get a job and we can live in one of them suburbs, you know, and have a backyard for the baby. I always thought that’d be great, you know, if you was a kid and had a backyard.”
    â€œWhat’s Trent’s last name?” Father John asked, trying to lead her back. He was aware of the front door thudding shut, the scrape of Father Ian’s boots in the corridor.
    â€œHunter,” the girl said. “Trent tol’ me the name used to be Man Who Hunts Buffalo, but it got shortened.”
    He’d heard the name, Father John was thinking, but he didn’t know the family. St. Francis Mission was on the southeastern edge of the reservation, close to the Arapaho communities. The Shoshones lived to the west and north. It was as if each tribe had staked out its own territory.
    He reached over and dragged the phone across the desk. “Why don’t I call Trent’s family,” he said.
    â€œOh, Father, would you?” The girl leaned so far forward that, for a moment, he feared she might topple headfirst out of the chair. Before he could dial for information, she was rattling off the number. He punched in the keys and listened to the rhythmic buzz of a ringing phone.
    â€œI know the number by heart,” the girl was saying. “I called it so many times.”
    The buzzing stopped. A loud clanking sound came down the line, as if somebody had dropped the phone at the other end. Then a cough, and finally a man’s voice, deep and tinged with annoyance. “Hello.”
    Father John gave his name and asked to speak with Trent.
    The line seemed to go dead. Finally, the voice came again. “You the priest over at the Arapaho mission?” Annoyance had given way to surprise. “My boy doesn’t live here anymore, Father. He’s going to school in Riverton, lives over in town. Got himself a job there. Keeps pretty busy. You want his number?”
    â€œI was wondering if you saw him this weekend?”
    â€œThis weekend? Nah. Trent works on Saturdays, and spends all day Sunday studying, that is . . .” He hesitated, then plunged on. “Got himself a girlfriend that takes up his time, even though I been telling him, ‘Son, you don’t need to get yourself all tangled up with women now. Just gotta get yourself through school.’ I want my boy to make something of himself, Father.”
    â€œWhen’s the last time you saw him?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe couple weeks ago. What’s going on, Father? Yesterday, the tribal attorney calls, says that Trent’s supposed to show up at the court. I told that attorney he had the wrong Shoshone. Trent’s over in Riverton, minding his own business, like I wish a lot of people around here would do.”
    â€œListen, Mr. Hunter,” Father John said. “Trent’s girlfriend is here with me. She hasn’t seen Trent since Friday, and she’s worried about him. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
    The line went quiet a moment before the man said, “Let me tell you something, Father. If I knew where Trent’s holing up, I sure wouldn’ttell that white girl. Sounds