The Thunder Keeper Read Online Free Page A

and the brown face broke into a wide, reassured grin.
    He turned toward the next table, then stopped. For an instant he’d thought Vicky Holden was across the hall: the slim figure and shoulder-length black hair, the finely sculptured brown face, the shining, intelligent black eyes. A woman who resembled her, that was all, and he realized he’d been half expecting to see Vicky here. She wouldn’t have missed the arts-and-crafts fair if she still lived in the area.
    He shook away the sense of loss that came over him at the most unexpected moments. Vicky Holden had gone back to work at her old law firm in Denver five months ago. It was the way it should be. Still, he missed their friendship, missed working with her—lawyer and priest: they’d been a good team—missed being able to pick up the phone and run something by her, test some far-fetched theory against the toughness of her mind. He could have talked to her about a missing Indian.
    â€œFather John, over here.”
    He swung around. Louise Little Horse was getting to her feet, beckoning him toward her table.
    â€œHow are you, Grandmother?” he said, walking over.
    The old woman picked up a bolo tie and held it out in her small pink palm. The round disk was covered with tightly woven white beads. In the center—it might have been soaring through the clouds—was the blue-beadedfigure of a thunderbird, the symbol of thunder, the guardian of the atmosphere. Radiating out from the bird figure were red lines, symbolizing the sun and life.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” he said.
    â€œI made it for you.” She looked up at him, the narrow, dark eyes shining in the furrowed face.
    â€œPlease let me pay you for it,” he said, fishing in his jeans pocket for some bills.
    â€œOh, no.” An aggrieved look came into the dark face. She reached out, took his hand, and folded his fingers around the tie, and he thought of what the elders always said: accept the gifts offered you and be grateful.
    â€œThank you, Grandmother.” He slipped the beaded rope around his neck and pulled the disk up under the collar of his shirt. “I’ll wear it with pride,” he told her.
    â€œIt’ll protect you,” she said. Then: “You look real Arapaho now. Only you gotta grow black hair.”
    â€œI hear there’s other ways.”
    â€œI hear shoe polish works.”
    He laughed.
    â€œWhat’s worrying you, Father?” The old woman leaned across the table.
    â€œIt shows?”
    She nodded.
    â€œTell me, Grandmother,” he began. “Any news on the moccasin telegraph that the pastor at St. Francis hasn’t heard yet?”
    Now it was her turn to laugh. The brown face crinkled into the lines that fanned from her eyes and mouth. “Oh, I’d say there’s always something that folks’d just as soon the pastor didn’t know about.”
    â€œHave you heard that anybody’s missing?”
    She nodded.
    He remained still. The pounding drums, the hum ofvoices receded around them. Finally she said, “Warriors went out today looking for somebody. Ben Holden . . .”
    â€œBen Holden.” He repeated the name, almost to himself. First the face in the crowd, now the mention of Vicky’s ex-husband. The reminders brought little stabs of pain that he tried to push away.
    â€œ. . . called my grandson real early. Five A . M . Woke up the whole house. Said somebody got lost up at Bear Lake. My grandson took off. They was gonna start lookin’ soon’s it got light.”
    â€œWho, Grandmother? Who were they looking for?” Father John kept his eyes on the old woman’s. A name. He needed a name. Then he could go to the family. He could find out who else might be in danger and he’d find some way—there had to be a way—to warn them.
    The old woman was shaking her head. “Soon’s I find out—” The drums stopped, and