THE TWO BOYS walked around the corner of the gray church to the base of a pine tree that stood nearly sixty feet tall. The tree towered over the church, which was built entirely of stones with plain glass windows and black shingle roof. The steeple wasn’t very tall, but the bell in the tower had been calling the Cheyenne to Sunday Mass since the early 1900s. Sitting on the cold ground under the tree, Johnny and Richard watched the crowd milling around the church steps. Father Shannon, wearing a large wool coat, was greeting his parishioners as they left 9:30 Mass. He shook hands with the men and women, his breath sending up warm puffs into the cold air.

“Watch him,” Richard said. “He pats all the kids on the head just like he really likes them.”

“Yeah, and he probably doesn’t know half their names.”

“He sure knows yours,” Richard said, smiling.

Johnny nodded his head. “I know, but really, Father Shannon was very fair with me. I always just thought he was a grumpy old man, but he let me off pretty lightly for the fight at the Miles City game. I thought I would get kicked off the team for hitting a white boy. But, he was pretty cool. I helped Dad clean up the school yesterday and it wasn’t too bad, even if it was on a Saturday.”

“I think it helped that Father McGlothlin and Coach Goodheart stood up for you.”

“I’m sure it did.” After a moment or so, Johnny said, “Actually, Father Shannon reminded me a little of Gray Man when we were in his office.”

The two sat silently for a moment. Johnny picked up an old pine cone and tossed it to Richard. The ground around them was covered with pine needles, pine cones, and a little snow.

“Do you think Gray Man is a priest?” Johnny asked. “I know he wouldn’t call himself that because he’s a medicine man.”

“Sure, he’s a priest in the faith of the Cheyenne. He talks to his Great Spirit, Maheo, just like the Catholic priests talk to their Great Spirit, God the Father.”

“But what about Jesus and Mary and all the saints? How can you believe that a white buffalo robe has magical powers while the Church teaches us that miracles only happen through God?”

“I have to admit,” Richard answered, “that sometimes I’m confused, especially when I receive Holy Communion. But the other night, when Gray Man cured that little girl and we danced to celebrate, I knew that the Cheyenne beliefs are just as true as the white man’s. It seems to me that Maheo and God are the same guy and it’s okay to worship Him whatever way we want.”

Johnny turned to his friend. “I don’t see how things could ever be more confused than they are right now. I saw my grandfather cure a sick girl with a rattle and drum. It’s impossible, but I saw it happen. If I told my father that, he’d probably beat me with his belt again. Yet, I can’t help what I feel. Every day I feel more and more Cheyenne, more like Gray Man.”

Richard put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it so much. Everything will be all right. Just give it time. Keep coming to the dances and listen to our people talk of the old days, and you’ll make the same decision I did. We were once a free and proud people; maybe we can be again.

“I gotta go now. Mom’s blowing the horn.”

“Wait!” Johnny shouted. “Did you get in any trouble with your mom over moving Moody Johnson’s body?”

“No, not really. She reminded me of the evils of alcohol.”

“My mom and dad were pretty cool about it, too. They were happy that the courts weren’t going to charge us with anything. But they wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t do anything like it again. It was pretty easy.”

“I guess we were lucky.” Richard stood up, brushed off his pants, and ran through the thinning crowd to his mother. He was smaller than Johnny, stockier in build, and ran much slower. When Richard reached the rusted Ford Bronco, he hopped in the front seat and slammed the door. Mrs. Amos popped the clutch, spitting gravel as they drove out of the church parking lot onto the paved road.

Johnny smiled as he walked around the church to the pickup where his parents sat waiting for him. He almost bumped into Sarah Pretty Feather. “Hi, Johnny,” she said, smiling with beautiful white teeth. “Do you think you’ll win the game this time?”

“Boy, I hope so.” He tried to think up something clever to say, but the words stuck in his throat. He was in the eighth grade and he still couldn’t talk to girls. Instead, Johnny pushed some pebbles around with his foot.

After a long moment, Sarah smiled and said, “Me, too. Maybe we’ll win this time and there won’t be any trouble. I’ll be there cheering for you,” and she walked off to join her parents.

He shook his head and climbed into the bed of the faded red truck, sat on a blue plastic milk box, and tapped on the window. “Let’s go, Dad.”