The Book of Kills Read Online Free PDF Page A

platoon setting out from the fort into Apache country. Orion Plant was asking him to see those forces of civilization as exploiters. He looked at his watch.
    “What do you think?” Plant asked.
    “You don’t have a chance.”
    “You haven’t been listening.”
    “The problem is that I have.”
    “Let me leave this with you.”
    “This” was a manuscript bound at Kinko’s. The cover read:
The Case Against Notre Dame: A House Built Upon a Stolen Sand
. Leone said he would read it. Somewhat to his surprise, he did.
    He read it late into the night, sipping scotch and water, enthralled. Plant had indeed made a persuasive case against the legitimacy of Notre Dame’s title to the land on which it stood. Plant might have received a doctorate on the basis of the researchhe had done on this. He should have entered his hobby horse in the race.
    Leone had had only a vague conception of Badin before he read Plant’s manuscript. The first priest ordained in the United States, in Baltimore, had lived a roving ministry going to Bardstown, Indiana, Michigan—before they were states, of course—buying up land out of who knew what selfless greed. His deal with Sorin was lavishly narrated and documented. How could Edward Sorin fail to fear when his title to the land was contested in the late 1850s? But it was Plant’s mention of natural law that triggered something deep and obscure in Leone’s memory.
    The Unwritten Law had dubious status in the courts, but in the Church it was the rock on which alone positive law could be justly built. Half an hour’s reading made clear that such a complaint would be laughed out of any court. But Leone had found the unexpected something which would enable him to triumph once more over the university counsel. How could Notre Dame dismiss as irrelevant the natural law of which the Church claimed to be the providential custodian?
    The ice melted in Leone’s drink, he stopped lighting cigarettes, he closed the manuscript and stared into space. A small smile formed on his lips. Victory was in that smile.

7
    ALTHOUGH IT WAS ONLY Thursday, the campus had already begun to swarm with visitors for Saturday’s game with the Seminoles. Early arriving Florida State fans registered in their various local hotels and then descended on the campus wearing elements of their school’s regalia. War bonnets were seen and tomahawks flourished. A mocassined man of middle age, gone in drink—thus verifying perhaps the claim that alcohol should be kept from the red man and his friends—jumped into the reflecting pool in front of Hesburgh Library. The pool was three feet deep. His feathered head did not protect him when he struck bottom. He was pulled sputtering over the surrounding ledge, spitting out water. Then he gave out a spine-tingling war whoop. It would be an exciting game.
    Phil had invited guests for the game, one that drew national attention of a special kind. Even in the dullest season, every Notre Dame game made it onto national television. A losing team provided solace for the many who hated the Fighting Irish and what was thought to be their unjust hold on the country’s attention. Loyal fans from coast to coast gathered around their sets, certain that the Blessed Mother would pull victory out of the hat. But this was a winning season for Notre Dame and Florida State too was unbeaten. Warring statistical accounts, put together by analysts who in another age would have studied theentrails of birds, professed to show that Notre Dame’s schedule could not match that of Florida State. Defenders pointed to the scope of the Irish schedule, their opponents drawn from all the major conferences, while Florida State only dominated its own conference. As the game drew near, arguments became heated, level heads were needed to prevent partisans from coming to blows. Phil’s guests, Muggs Bofield and Charlie Callahan, were aficionados of the game itself and professed to be above mere partisan judgments. But