Watching Eagles Soar by Margaret Coel Page A

the way,” she said.
    * * *
    T hey stood outside on the sun-washed stoop as two uniformed officers led Kenny Yellow Plume toward the three white cars with Wind River Police stamped in blue letters on the sides. Groups of parishioners stood around the church, worry and shock stamped in their expressions. A few minutes earlier, the police cars had screamed into the mission and a phalanx of officers had come through the opened doors of the church. Now two of the officers pushed Kenny into the backseat of a car. In a moment, engines growled into life and the cars started around Circle Drive. Father John caught a glimpse of Kenny Yellow Plume, black head bobbing over his chest, and he realized that the Indian was weeping.
    â€œWell, he’s not gonna be causing any more trouble for a while,” Leonard said. Nathan and the other two men grunted in agreement. They were still breathing hard, gulping at the hot air as if they couldn’t get enough.
    â€œYou took a huge risk. All of you,” Father John said, but he kept his eyes on Vicky. He couldn’t shake the image of what might have happened if Kenny had fired down the aisle.
    â€œWe were just following instructions,” Leonard said. “Vicky said she’d distract the guy, so you could jump him and get the gun. We waited for the commotion inside before we came busting in.”
    â€œI figured that you would only need a split second,” Vicky said.
    Father John was quiet a moment; then he said, almost to himself, “I wasn’t able to talk Kenny out of the gun.” He turned away.
    â€œHe’d made up his mind to kill us both,” Vicky said.
    Father John was aware of the warm pressure of Vicky’s hand on his arm as he stared across the grounds, past the sunshine dancing in the sprinkling water and past the stands of cottonwoods, until, finally, the last police car had disappeared.

Honor
    The Fifth Commandment: Honor thy father and thy mother.
    â€œT he boy’s dead.”
    â€œWhat?” Father John O’Malley pressed the receiver against his ear, wondering whether he had misunderstood the faint, raspy voice on the other end of the line. A pale, wavy light from the streetlamps around St. Francis Mission filtered through the window, streaking the walls and carpet in the front hall of the priest’s residence. Blackness bunched up at the far end. The old house sighed and creaked with the oncoming night. Only a few minutes ago, the clock over the mantel in the living room had chimed ten o’clock.
    The man at the other end of the line said nothing. Father John could hear the stifled sobs, the quick, jagged breathing. “Who is this?” he said, struggling for a gentle, reassuring tone.
    â€œThis here’s Randolph Whitebird,” the voice managed after a moment. “Scottie’s been shot, Father.” The sobs started again, unconcealed now, long and scraping, like the tearing of canvas.
    Father John waited. Then, still the gentle tone: “Where are you?”
    â€œOver here at Scottie’s place.” A forced control came into the man’s voice. “He got himself a house on Route Two. Everybody’s here—police and Scottie’s girlfriend. She’s the girl found him.” The voice cracked on the word
girl
. “Her folks just showed up.”
    Father John said, “I’ll be right over.”
    * * *
    T he sky was a field of stars sparkling in the blackness as Father John drove west across the Wind River Reservation. As he wheeled the Toyota pickup into a sharp right onto Route Two, his headlights flashed over the white shingles of the little house. Light blazed out of the front windows, illuminating the scrubbed patch of dirt that served as a yard. A strip of yellow police tape wrapped around stakes driven into the ground formed a half circle in front of the concrete steps that led to the stoop. People gathered in groups outside the tape, shadows