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thank-you notes to write for checks that spilled out of envelopes from people he had never heard of, phone calls to return, elders to check on, parishioners to visit in the hospitals—but it was like riding across the plains, topping each bluff only to spot a higher bluff ahead.
    The chair creaked as he leaned back. He grasped the armrests and waited while the woman across from him dabbed a tissue at her eyes and blew her nose.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, leaning sideways to stuff the tissue into her jeans pocket. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance.”
    â€œYou’re not a nuisance. Tell me what’s going on.”
    â€œIt’s Mikey.” She drew in a long breath and held it a moment before blowing it out like smoke. “You remember my kid?”
    â€œOf course.” A small kid with a wedge of black hair that hung in his eyes. Not much good at batting or throwing the ball, but he could run like the wind. If a pitcher put him on base, the Eagles could count on Mikey scoring a run. It had been several years since Mike Longshot had come around the mission. On those Sundays when Darleen came to Mass, she came alone.
    â€œMikey never came home from the parade this morning,” Darleen said. Her voice so small he had to lean forward to catch the words. “I been waiting for him all afternoon. I’m so worried I don’t know what to do.”
    â€œYou expected him home right away?” Father John tried to keep his own voice soft, like a blanket that might absorb the woman’s fear.
    â€œI didn’t know what to expect after . . .” She clasped and unclasped her hands, then dipped her mouth against her fist. “I was there. I seen what happened to Custer. I seen what the warriors did.”
    Father John looked away a moment. He could see it still: warriors galloping around, cavalry stalled, horses plunging. “Are you worried that Mike had some part in it?” he said.
    She looked up. Her dark eyes were clouded with fear. “He didn’t have anything to do with it. Mikey would never be part of murder. He’s not dead inside. He couldn’t kill anybody. He can’t even stomp on a spider. He likes watching all kinds of living things, just watching and seeing how pretty they are.”
    â€œWhat worries you, Darleen?”
    â€œThey’re going to say he did it.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe warriors. I know how their minds work. The cops start coming around, asking a lot of questions, getting too close, one of them will swear he saw Mikey pull out a pistol and shoot Custer. All the others will back him up, and the cops are going to be so happy they solved the case. Big newspaper headlines about how clever they are. Another Indian thrown in prison. Who cares?”
    â€œWhat’s going on, Darleen?”
    Her hands were kneading the air above her lap. She opened her mouth and emitted a muffled strangling noise, as if she were choking. Father John jumped to his feet, but she threw out one hand. “You know . . .” she began, then sank back against the chair and dropped her eyes in a gesture of defeat. “Mikey’s different. He was never like other boys.”
    Father John nodded.
    â€œHe’s special, my Mikey. Rob and I knew we’d been given a special child almost from the time he was born. And we were grateful that the Creator had trusted him to us. He’s sensitive. When his daddy died in that car wreck, I thought Mikey was going to lay down and die, too. It was a long time before I could get him interested in doing anything. You remember how you came to the house and talked him into playing with the Eagles?” She had started crying, blurring the words and running her palms over her eyes. “Best thing ever happened to Mikey,” she managed. “He started coming out of it. Made friends. But as he got older, boys turned on him. They saw he was different. They forgot. Lots