The Night Watchman(63)

Third, surprisingly, Doris Lauder with her skin moist and white as a peeled apple. And that little hint of baby fat beneath her jaw and waist was just delectable. Her round arms and solid legs. The honey-brown red of her waves of hair. Clipped back, it wasn’t much, but when she let it fly out! Oh, she was a russet peach. A toothsome tempter. And she was a known quantity at that, being not an Indian, which made her less exotic and fascinating. But maybe he’d had it with the fascination. Maybe he just wanted a nice girl he didn’t have to work to impress. Maybe just a person whom he knew what was what with and who knew what was what with him.



“Here you are,” said Thomas Wazhashk. He slid into the pew beside Barnes and removed his mittens. He was dressed for winter in a heavy coat with a knitted muffler. “I’ve been cold,” he said.

“I’m just praying a little,” said Barnes.

“I came to do the same thing,” said Thomas. “And I did. Had a little talk with Jesus way back in the corner. Sat there waiting for you to get up and walk back outside where I could bend your ear. But I need to leave now, so I decided to bother you. For which I don’t mean to intrude.”

“No, that’s all right,” said Barnes, flattered at having the sort of solitude someone could intrude upon. “What was it? I’m all done with my praying.”

“It’s about putting up a boxing card,” said Thomas. “We are going to have to raise funds to send a delegation.”

“It’s about the bill, right?”

Thomas nodded. “It’s not as if the government is going to give us money to go and testify against what they are aiming to do. So we are going to have to raise the money ourselves. They’ve set the time. We’re on the March calendar. We have to be ready with everything by then.”

“You mean”—Barnes was groping for the right set of words—“you provide testimony? That sort of thing?”

“Put up a lot of evidence against it. That’s right. We are contacting a tribal scholar, too. She might be our secret weapon. And we need to pay for train tickets, a place to stay.”

“So. A boxing card.”

“With a cover charge. I figure if we put Wood Mountain up against Joe Wobble again we’ll fill the house.”

“I think you’re right. But maybe Joe, or maybe Wood, aren’t interested in a fight. It wasn’t a good fight. I have questions.”

“You’re not alone. That’s why a repeat of that fight would draw a crowd.”

“Yes,” said Barnes, “I can see that. We could use the community center. I can get Mr. Jarvis to put in a loudspeaker of some kind. We can get a real bell, not from the post office.”

“And the right kind of ropes.”

“Pretty girls. Scorecards,” said Barnes, in hope.

“No,” said Thomas.

“Well, a thought.”

Thomas nodded. He didn’t want to see Sharlo walk around with a number raised high overhead to be whistled at and leered at by rough men. It would be a clean fight and other boxers on the card, to lead up to the big event.

“If he’s fighting Joe Wobble again,” said Barnes, “I’d better get to work on him now.”

This had set him free, he thought later, as he made his way out of the church. If he was working on Wood Mountain for the good of his people, then nothing—not his delicious but distressing feelings for all three of the girls, not even his secret rivalry with his star boxer—would mean more than getting Wood Mountain into fighting shape to beat Joe Wobleszynski.

*

Funny how things happened, because that same week who should walk into the Four Bees restaurant looking forward to a farmer’s breakfast but Joe Wobleszynski himself. And there was Barnes, hair combed down and held flat on his head with water so it resembled one of the golden pancakes he was forking off his stack. Barnes greeted Joe as he walked by, shook hands, invited him to sit down since he was alone. Joe declined to order food and said he was supposed to meet a friend, but he could sit with Barnes for a coffee at least. There were no hard feelings there. Or anywhere, really, with Joe Wobble. He was not out to demolish his opponent’s coach, or even his opponent, outside the ring.

“Would you be up for it?” asked Barnes, when he’d described the venue, the reason for the card.

“Would I be getting a percentage here?”

“It’s for that trip to Washington for them to testify, like I said. Nobody’s benefiting. But it might help your standings if you definitively beat my guy.”

“Yeah, I didn’t like that whole timekeeper thing. It made me look like I was losing.”

“You’re a good man,” said Barnes.

“Maybe. I don’t know why I should care if they go to Washington.”

“Don’t you know any Indians?”

“What do you think? Hell yes, they work for us.”

“On your farm, right?”

“Stone Boy family, couldn’t do without them. They’re good Indians. I started sparring with Revard, you know.”

“He never said! He’s improving. Now I know the reason,” said Barnes, all strategic generosity.

“He’s a strong kid,” said Joe, smiling down into his coffee.

“You’d make a good coach,” said Barnes, in earnest. “Look here. I found out some stuff. If this termination thing goes through, we all lose. I’ll be out of a job. They’ll be moving people off this reservation—won’t be one anymore—the Stone Boys will end up in the Cities. This place is hollowing out already.”