The Story Teller Read Free

worthy of other important matters.
    She slowed for an easy right into Ethete and parked in the shade washing down the front of the red-brick building that housed the tribal offices. Grabbing her briefcase and black shoulder bag, she slid out into the heat, trying not to bang her door against an old pickup, although the pickup sported so many dents and scrapes and rust patches that another one of the world’s hard knocks hardly seemed to matter.
    It was cool inside the tribal building, a startling, man-made coolness. She nodded at the receptionist behind the desk across the lobby and hurried down the corridor on the right. Dennis Eagle Cloud stood outside a door at the far end, as if he’d seen her drive up and had been waiting while she negotiated the parking lot and lobby. He was about her age—early forties—with dark skin and dark eyes and black hair that curled over the opened collar of a white cowboy shirt. “We been waiting for you,” he said, waving her forward, an impatient gesture.
    “We?” she said, stopping in front of him.
    He took her hand and shook it loosely, as though he might be afraid of crushing it. Then he ushered her through the doorway into a small office almost completely taken up by a wide-topped desk. Beyond the desk, occupying a straight-backed chair against the wall, was one of the tribal elders, Charlie Redman, the storyteller.
    Vicky felt a stab of shame. This was the reason for her drive to Ethete. Dennis had wanted to spare the elder the long drive to Lander. She stepped around the desk toward the old man, who was starting to get to his feet—blue jeans, electric-blue cowboy shirt, tan Stetson moving toward her.
    “Please don’t get up, Grandfather,” she said, using the term of respect for Arapaho elders. The old man reached out and took her hand, holding it a long moment. His eyes had a dreamy look—he might have been looking beyond her, she thought, to some other place more real than the small office tucked at the end of a corridor. The silver bracelets on his wrists made a small clanking noise as he returned her hand. “You are good, Granddaughter,” he said, as if he’d inquired about her health and had reached his own conclusion.
    “Grandfather wants you in on this.” Dennis Eagle Cloud motioned her to the vacant chair next to the elder. As soon as she’d sat down, the cultural director bent over the desk, picked up a thin blue folder, and handed it to her. Large black letters marched across the top:
DENVER MUSEUM OF THE WEST.
In the center was the logo of a cowboy on a bucking bronco, lasso swirling overhead. Below the logo, in small type:
Inventory of Arapaho Funeral Objects and Other Sacred Objects in Compliance with the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act.
    So, it was about NAGPRA. Vicky tried to keep her face unreadable, tried to conceal her excitement. Almost four years, waiting for her people to trust her with something important. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked.
    Dennis sat back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his middle. “NAGPRA requires museums to provide each tribe with a complete inventory of objects belonging to that tribe. Soon as we sign off on the inventory”—a nod toward the folder in her hand—“wecan claim our things from the Denver Museum of the West.”
    Vicky flipped through the pages. A running list of artifacts and descriptions:
Spear—leather thongs, eagle feathers. Rattle—fur pieces, lightning design. Warrior shirt—tanned hide, decorative designs.
Dozens of other objects.
    She looked up, aware that both the director and the elder were watching her. The matter seemed clear. The museum had supplied the inventory; the Arapahos could acknowledge it and take the next step to claim the items. Not every item could be claimed under NAGPRA, she knew. Only sacred and burial objects, and cultural objects belonging to specific families. There was room for negotiation, however. A task for the