The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel Page B

would be an incredible find.”
    An incredible find indeed, Father John thought. One of the most important in American history—an Indian woman’s own account of the great American expedition. “What makes you think they’re here?”
    Laura’s expression dissolved into what passed for a smile. She sat back, drew in a breath, then began explaining. Another historian—Charlotte Allen—had discovered the memoirs twenty years ago. Someone named Toussaint knows where they are.
    â€œToussaint?” he said. “I’ve never met anyone by that name.”
    â€œTheresa Redwing may know who he is,” Vicky said. “Her mother was one of the elders who gave Charlotte Allen permission to publish the memoirs. Laura’s hoping the Shoshones will extend her the same courtesy.” She leaned toward him. “Would you ask Theresa to talk to her? You can explain the importance of writing the truth about the past.”
    â€œYou sound like a historian,” Father John said.
    Vicky laughed, a soft, rippling sound. A relaxed look of familiarity came into her eyes. “Maybe I’ve been around historians too long.”
    â€œI don’t know Theresa Redwing very well.” He’d met the woman at celebrations and powwows. She was a respected Shoshone elder, but she wasn’t one of his parishioners.
    â€œThe elders trust you,” Vicky persisted.
    Father John glanced at the blond woman. A friend, Vicky had said. She didn’t have many friends, it seemed. Woman Alone, the grandmothers called her. He sei ci nihi. A few relatives scattered about the res, two kids in Los Angeles, an ex-husband . . . He pushed the thought away. Laura Simmons was her friend, and Vicky had asked him to help. He had always found it difficult to turn her down.
    â€œI’ll stop by and have a talk with Theresa,” he said to Laura.
    The woman gave him a thin smile, a crack in the pale face. Then she began rummaging in the folder. She plucked out a legal-size notepad and pen, scribbled something, and tore off three triangles of paper. She handed them around. “You can reach me at this number,” she said. “The Mountain House in Lander.”
    Then she was on her feet, pulling on the white coat, fingering the buttons, nodding at the curator. “You’ll call me the minute you locate the letters?” she asked, gripping the folder and fixing her tan bag over one shoulder.
    Lindy promised. A day or two, and she should have them.
    â€œStill some time to visit the Shoshone cultural center,” Laura said, inspecting the gold watch on her wrist. “You never know, Sacajawea’s memoirs could be on a shelf somewhere.”
    The remark brought another jolt of memory. There was always hope—Father John knew it well—that other historians had missed something important, something in plain view on a shelf somewhere.
    â€œI’ll call you, Vicky.” Laura was at the door now, and in a moment she was gone, leaving only the shush of her footsteps fading in the hallway, the whack of the front door trembling through the floorboards.
    Vicky turned to him. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
    â€œI can put on a pot of coffee in the office,” he said.

8
    â€œW hat about the skeleton?” Vicky glanced up at him as they walked along Circle Drive, cutting fresh tracks in the membrane of snow on the asphalt. The wind sprinkled white flecks in her hair. She was wearing a long, black coat that she held closed with one hand. Her briefcase swung from the other, and the strap of the familiar black bag was fixed over one shoulder. She moved with an easy naturalness into the space ahead, displacing the emptiness. “Any chance it’s ancient?”
    â€œThe elders think so,” Father John said. “They asked me to check with Gianelli.” This wasn’t what she wanted to talk to him about. She could have