better.”
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Harris said. He held up a rolled copy of a tabloid, chewed and ragged as an old bone. “Tomorrow this piece of shit that calls itself a newspaper hits the stands with a front-page story about Shiloh. Every asshole who’s got nothing better to do will be up here making this a hell of a lot harder than it already is.”
“There are going to be reporters. What are you going to tell them?” Vincent Benedetti asked Nathan Jackson.
Jackson lifted a poker and rearranged the burning logs in the fireplace. He worked carefully, positioning the logs so that hot flames rose up, climbing into the chimney. “If Shiloh is my daughter,” he asked Benedetti, “would you still care?”
“I suppose I’ve cared too long to stop now.”
“Me, too.” Jackson put down the poker. “I’ll tell the reporters the truth and see what happens.”
Schanno leaned to Jo. “You look tired. Why don’t you go on home. I’ll keep you posted if we get any news.”
Angelo Benederti helped her on with her coat. “It’s dark out,” he said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
Schanno started to say something, but before he could get a word out, Jo said, “All right.”
Outside, night was bringing a deep chill to the air. Jo pulled her coat tightly around her. Benedetti’s shoulder brushed her own. He smelled of a good limy cologne.
“Mind if I ask a question?”
“Go ahead,” Jo said.
“Who are you most worried about out there?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’ve heard things about your husband. If your concern is for him, I’m thinking you must be quite a forgiving woman.”
“You’ve been listening to gossip.”
“People love to talk about other people. Hard to stop them. And you can learn a lot that way.”
“Do they gossip in Las Vegas?”
“Does a flush beat a straight?”
“And do they always get it right?”
“Ah, more to things than meets the eye?”
“Always.”
“You know, I thought people here would be different.”
Jo reached out to open the door, but something rich and warm in Benedetti’s voice held her back.
“I came here expecting… I don’t know…”
“American Gothic in flannel?” she said.
“Something like that. I don’t get out of Vegas much, so for me if it doesn’t glitter, it’s not exciting, you know.”
“Mr. Benedetti, the only things that glitter here are the stars. And frankly, I like it that way.” She looked down at the keys in her hand. “But for the record, you’re not exactly what I would have expected of a-”
“Gangster?” He laughed softly. “You know, I’ve seen the law played a lot of ways. So much depends on the side of the table where you happen to be standing. For the record, you look good on your side of the table. Good night, Ms. O’Connor.”
He headed back toward the cabin. For a moment, she stood alone under the stars and let herself enjoy the ghost of the compliment Angelo Benedetti had left behind.
43
Darkness spilled across the sky above the Deertail, bringing cold that threatened a bitter night. As the fire dried and warmed their clothing, Cork and Stormy slid pants and shirts under Sloane, coats and sweaters over him. They kept the flames leaping high, with a huge bed of coals beneath giving out heat. Sloane’s wounds bled and soaked the dried clothing; there was nothing any of them could do. They tried their best to make him comfortable. He ate a little soup Cork spooned through his lips. But Cork knew they were losing him. And when Sloane’s brown eyes held on Cork’s face, the look in them said he knew it, too. They didn’t talk about the other man who was lost to them and probably dead. Except Louis, who said, “I hope Arkansas Wilie is okay.”
“We all hope so,” Stormy said.
“He liked my stories.” Louis added a handful of sticks to the fire. “Maybe we’ll find him waiting downstream.”
Stormy glanced at Cork. “Maybe we will,” he said quietly.
“Are you warm enough?” Cork asked Sloane.
“Enough,” Sloane murmured.
Louis brought over a fire-dried wool sweater and laid it on Sloane. “Is that good?” he asked.
Somehow Sloane managed a smile for the boy. “Fine, Louis. It’s fine.”
Stormy had a pot of coffee on the fire’s edge. Cork poured a cup and sat down beside Sloane.
Although Sloane’s face glistened, a chill passed through him that made his body shake so violently he couldn’t speak. When the tremor passed, he breathed a sigh and closed his eyes. “I like your stories, too, Louis. How ’bout one now?”
“About what?”
“Anything,” Stormy told him.
Louis looked into the dark where the Deertail ran. He said, “How about the story of the river?”
His father nodded and Louis told this story.
Small Bear was a proud man. More than proud. He was vain. He was generally known to be the most handsome man in the land of the Anishinaabe. His hair was long and black, his eyes red-brown like cedar bark, his face more pleasant to look on than a summer lake. Village maidens dreamed of becoming his wife. All except one. Her name was Morning Sun. She was a young woman who loved the beauty of the forests more than the face of any man. Her lack of interest stung Small Bear’s pride-and intrigued him. He sought Morning Sun whenever she went for solitude into the forest, but she always hid from him. Desperate to possess the maiden who shunned him, Small Bear appealed to Nanabozho. Nanabozho understood Small Bear’s passion, but he was also fond of Morning Sun, whose love of the forest and respect for the manidoog -the spirits-were well known to him. Nanabozho decreed that Small Bear and Morning Sun should race. If Small Bear won. Morning Sun would be his wife. If Morning Sun were the victor, Small Bear could never again speak to her.
Small Bear was afraid, for Morning Sun was reputed to be as fleet of foot as he was handsome. He sought the help of a magician, who gave him a deerskin pouch containing three leaves. Eat the leaves just before the race begins, the magician instructed him.
The day of the race, moments before they began to run. Small Bear ate the leaves. Immediately he changed into a river. He began to flow swiftly, leaving far behind him Morning Sun, who had to leap fallen trees and avoid raspberry thickets and climb high hills. The sound of the water bubbling smoothly along was the laughter of Small Bear in his delight, for soon Morning Sun would be his wife.
Morning Sun cried out, appealing to Nanabozho that Small Bear had cheated. Nanabozho agreed. He caused the spirits of the valley to throw down a wall of rock to block Small Bear’s way. Small Bear hit the wall with a sound like thunder. Angrily, he threw himself against the rocks again and again, slowly breaking through. But not soon enough. Morning Sun ran past him and finished the race long before Small Bear. To this day, the sound of Small Bear’s anger can be heard in the thunder of the rapids.
Sloane opened his eyes when the story was finished. “Thank you, Louis. Small Bear was an asshole. Glad Morning Sun won.” He looked at Cork. “A runner. Like you, Cork. A marathoner, right?”
“I’ve run one.”
“Always told myself I’d do a marathon someday. Never got around to it. Lot of things like that. Too much left undone.”
