Eye of the Wolf Read Online Free Page B

exercise yard with the concrete floor and the razor wire on top of the high concrete walls.
    When she’d asked Frankie about the rifle, he’d stared at her in slack-jawed disbelief. Rifle? There wasn’t any rifle. How could he have a rifle when his deer rifle had been stolen out of the back of his pickup two weeks ago? Anybody said he’d pulled a rifle on those Shoshones was lying.
    Vicky forced her attention back to the courtroom. The door on the left had swung open, and Frankie was heading her way, dressed in a tan jacket over a yellow shirt and dark trousers that Lucille had probably brought him this morning for the hearing, hair combed loose over his shoulders, head tilted to the side as he surveyed the courtroom. Close behind, in another dusty blue uniform, was a guard, the black belt weighted with a holstered gun on one hip. The guard nudged Frankie’s arm, guiding him toward the vacant chair at the table.
    Frankie slid in beside her, head still pivoting, narrowed black eyes roaming over the benches. Finally, a look of satisfaction imprinted itself on his features. He leaned sideways. “How long’s this shit gonna take,” he said.
    Vicky could smell the sour odor of his breath. “As long as the judge wants.”
    â€œYeah? Well, I want the hell outta that jail. The place stinks. You’d better get me out of there.”
    Vicky turned and faced the man. He and Lucas had ridden their ponies together in the summers when they were kids. God, what had happened? “Listen to me,” she said. “I’ll do what I can to get the charges against you dropped, but I don’t work miracles. I’d suggest that you show respect for the court and act like you’re sorry for the trouble you’ve caused.”
    â€œI was defending myself.” Frankie squared himself to the front of the courtroom.
    The court stenographer—a small woman with curly black hair and thick glasses—sat down at a table just as a short, stocky man stepped through the door behind the judge’s bench. “Everybody rise,” he called out, as if he were shouting through a megaphone. “The Shoshone-Arapaho tribal court is now in session.”
    Vicky got to her feet. From behind her came the scrape and shuffle of people rearranging coats and bags and standing up. She realized Frankie was still seated and tapped the man on the shoulder. Taking his time, he lumbered upward, still leaning forward when the tribal judge,Harry Winslow, two hundred pounds of muscle encased in a black robe beneath a crown of white hair, emerged from the door, gripping a thick file folder in one hand. He glanced around the courtroom, then sat down in the high-backed leather chair behind the bench, and opened the folder.
    â€œTake your seats,” he barked, peering through glasses perched halfway down his nose. More scraping and shuffling as Frankie’s relatives settled back onto the benches. Frankie dropped onto his chair and rolled his boots behind the front legs. Vicky shot him a warning glance as he started to lean back. The man lifted his eyes to the ceiling and clasped his hands across his chest.
    â€œLooks like we’ve got three matters on the agenda this afternoon,” the judge said, glancing over his glasses toward the back of the courtroom. “First matter before the tribal court is the assault charges against Frank Joseph Montana.” A rattling noise drifted through the courtroom, like the sound of boots crunching dried leaves, as the judge thumbed through the papers in the folder.
    â€œMr. Montana?” He fixed Frankie with a hard stare over the top of his glasses.
    Vicky stood up and, gesturing with her head, urged Frankie to his feet. The man pushed against the arms of his chair and lifted himself upward. “My client is present. I’m Vicky Holden, Mr. Montana’s attorney.” This was for the benefit of the court stenographer. She’d lost count of