Chapter 1
Flann O Phelan shifted his
other， glancing nervously
weight from one foot to the
about at the flames in the
marble-faced fireplace and then at the gilt wallpaper
l~etween the arched windows. In a mirror， he glimpsed
his red hair flaring above the sober black of his frock
coat.
On the small writing table beside him lay a reed-
stemmed pipe with a red stone bowl. Flann tried to fo-
cus his attention on it. This must be the famous Indian
pipe he d heard about， the bowl made from catlinite
quarried in the Minnesota Territory， the red stone aU
the Indian tribes used for their calumets.
Walking along Pennsylvania Avenue on his way
to the White House， he had seen an Indian out for a
stroll， wearing buckskin clothes decorated with beads
and a bonnet of feathers atop his head. Flann had
stopped to stare， only to earn a laugh from a store-
keeper in the doorway of his shop.
\"There s painted Indians on this street all the
time， always visiting the Great White Father， or trying
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